


Nero Wolfe Series

by hawknat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, adds more dimension to sherlock, and irene, and who knows what i'll do with these characters, but especially to nero and his briliance, i think i like the idea of nero being deaf, the deafness is probably just for that chapter, these aren't specifically chronological, who doesn't love parentlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-02-08 07:20:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1931760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawknat/pseuds/hawknat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A non-chronological series of parentlock prompts starring Nero Wolfe, the production of a wickedly brilliant dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees. Hope you enjoy this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

CHAPTER I

Little Nero stood on the very tips of his ten tiny toes and hooked his fingers on to the curved edge of the broad marble table.

He stared up at his mother with none other than Sherlock Holmes’ eyes- two round pools of deep blue with vibrant swirls of gold and green. If you stared close enough, his eyes appeared like Van Gogh’s _Starry Night_. They were always twinkling and wide and bouncing with curiosity and intrigue. He was merely one-and-a-half years of age but you had no choice but to wonder what went on in that brilliant inquiring mind of his.

He unclenched one hand from the edge of the table and reached up for the shiny object on the surface. His miniscule fingers spread wide apart, he grunted demandingly at his mother as if it was obvious what he wanted.

Irene glanced upwards at the sound of her son’s notably agitated voice. She then looked down where she saw his arm outstretched in determination to retrieve something off of the table. His great mop of dark curls wiggled about and recoiled as his voice increased by multiple intervals, hinting increasing frustration. He reached harder for that desirable shiny thing that Irene immediately identified as Sherlock’s old magnifying glass. It was neatly placed in an opaque cylinder container among other tools like pencils and rulers. He had brought it over to Irene’s flat centuries ago after insisting that the place needed at least one scientific or investigative tool. She couldn’t recall the last time she had seen him actually utilize it, though. Irene herself hadn’t moved it since Sherlock placed it on the table. You could see that it had not been touched in ages.

And Nero apparently wanted it.

Setting down a novel about post mortems that Sherlock had given her last week after he managed to encourage her that there was vital information inside, Irene reached inside the container and handed her son the magnifying class.

She watched him with careful eyes to see what he would do with it.

Delight bubbling in his tummy, Nero clasped his slim fingers around the cold silvery rod of the magnifying glass and his little pink lips curved into an O shape. At first Irene thought he was going to plunge it down his throat from the visual of his open mouth and wide eyes that burst with awe.

Nero surprised her, ever the son of Sherlock Holmes, by pressing the glass portion of the magnifying glass to his eye. It hadn’t fazed the baby in the least. A chortle erupted from his stomach as he ecstatically looked around the rooms of Irene’s flat.

Seeing as co-residency was too base (his precise words) and commonplace for Sherlock, they made the mutual decision to have Nero living at both residences. Sometimes he slept at 221B Baker Street and other times he slept at Irene’s flat in Belgravia. He did, in a sense, experience the best of both worlds. He had the luxury of being spoiled pure rotten by Irene and Kate when he was in Belgravia and by Mrs. Hudson and sometimes John when he was at Baker Street.

“And what might you be searching for, my clever little detective?” Irene spoke with gentle playfulness in her voice and the wooden chair scraped against the ground as she slid back and stood up.

“When you were born, I expected that you would be brilliant. I didn’t expect to have _two_ clever detectives on my hands,” she chuckled as Nero turned to her, taking the time to scrutinize his mother through the magnifying glass.

“I will ensure that only one of those detectives dons a funny hat,” a deep and gruff and very familiar voice sounded across the room.

Nero had seen his father before Irene did. Setting the magnifying glass aside carelessly, his petite feet carried him across the floors with confidence. He snaked his arms around Sherlock’s leg and squeezed with all the strength he could summon from his little body.

A pleased grin crept on to Irene’s lips and she gave a slow 360 spin. She never tired of seeing Sherlock in that dark grey coat with the red lacing and blue scarf. His dark curls- the gene that Nero inevitably inherited- glistened from the sparse rain that started about three minutes ago outside. So he had been in the flat for a good minute and a half, the sexy bastard.

“Why?” Irene asked, a flicker of coy in her bright blue eyes, “Can’t we have two clever detectives in funny hats?”

“No you absolutely cannot. That hat is disagreeable and I seldom elect to wear it because it incites a significant increase in clients when I do. I refuse to pass down such degradation to my son,” Sherlock retorted.

Nero seemed to grunt in agreement. His arms were still sheathed around his father’s leg. Sherlock took a leather-gloved hand out of his right pocket and tousled Nero’s curls with a grin.

“Well then,” Irene strode over to him and planted a warm and extensive kiss on his lips, “You’ve only been gone for half an hour. Was the case so transparent that you got bored and left the crime scene?”

Nero looked up at his father as if he were seconding his mother’s inquiry.

“I was on the case for five minutes, to be precise. And I’ve been gone for exactly twenty-five minutes, not half an hour,” Sherlock pointed out, causing Irene to shake her head dismissively, “The victim was murdered. Lestrade tried to declare it a suicide because he had other lewd interests that he was especially eager to handle judging by his frequenting text messages and the fact that his pupils dilated and he began to perspire every time he heard his phone alert. He is clearly cheating on his wife and it’s a rather passionate love affair. There’s no point in them staying together, it’s obviously a friend of the wife that Lestrade is with.”

“Sherlock,” Irene began to reprimand him for divulging Lestrade’s private business particularly because it had no affiliation with the case whatsoever but Nero chirped in disagreement to his mother interrupting.

So instead she settled for, “Don’t you find it somewhat disquieting that our son is so invested in this macabre story?”

“I’m not surprised at all,” Sherlock patted Nero’s head for a second time, “I find that he falls asleep effortlessly when I tell him about my cases. He seems to enjoy it, in fact.”

Irene’s eyebrows rose in utter shock consequently to hearing this and she folded her arms across her bosom, “You’ve been telling Nero murder stories?”

“They’re not just stories, they actually happened,” Sherlock replied stubbornly, “In any case, our son exhibits exceedingly high levels of understanding which is no doubt representative of his superior brilliance. I do believe he can handle hearing about his father’s occupation in detail. Now, back to the case. It was obvious that it was murder based on the bruising on her neck. The grooves were deep, too deep for the strength of the average woman. I approximated by the depth of the bruising that a man twice her size strangled her. Why? It was over an affair, of course, judging by the inside of her wedding band. This made Lestrade’s situation congruous to the case, ironically,” he smirked proudly.

Irene simply shook her head again.

“She was strangled to death with a belt. You could smell the leather coming of her body, which meant that she wasn’t dead even for an hour. The person who murdered her was at the crime scene. In fact, it was the person who reported the murder. He was clearly a psychopath and was pleased with what he had done. It takes fifteen to twenty seconds to strangle someone to death and using a leather belt marginally shortens the time. He had enough time to contemplate the rationality of his decision and halt before it was too late but he wanted her dead. She was leaving him and so he declared that if he could not have her, then nobody else could. Idiot. Such a waste of time,” Sherlock scowled and Nero copied his actions.

“Oh my poor detective,” Irene put on a superficial pout. She swiftly unraveled his scarf and proceeded to remove his jacket from his torso, “I’m sure a better case will turn up soon. Perhaps you ought to wear that hat you love so much.”

Sherlock grimaced at the thought of it but Irene intertwined her fingers with the curls at his nape and pulled him down to her lips. Covering her mouth with his, she raked her fingernails softly into his scalp before brushing her tongue against his rather provocatively.

“We’re going to have dinner tonight,” she whispered into his ear, “I arranged for Mrs. Hudson to watch Nero tonight at your flat.”

“Why mine?” Sherlock’s voice was low against her lips and he could feel the heat rising from her body.

“Because,” Irene gave him a chaste kiss. And when she couldn’t conjure up a flirtatious retort, she resolved to state the obvious, “I said so.”

And at that, Nero gave another demanding grunt and stretched his arms upwards towards his father. After removing his gloves and tossing them to the side similarly to the way Nero did the magnifying glass, Sherlock took his son into his arms and sudden warmth overcame him.

Nero burst into ecstatic laughter when his father made a silly face at him.

“He appears to enjoy when I did that,” Sherlock concluded audibly, “Research has shown that irregular contortions of the face provokes plentiful laughter from babies which as a result exercises the muscles of the heart… “

Resolving that he was simply thinking aloud again, Irene left the room. She was confident that he wouldn’t notice until perhaps an hour later when he fed Nero and put him to bed.

She left her two detectives in the room to themselves and went into her own bedroom to prepare for dinner.

 

* * *

 

 

 

~~This is my first adlock/parent!lock prompt thingy. Do be gentle with me. I’m a terrible writer. What did you think?~~


	2. Nero Wolfe Series Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some think that the dominatrix and detective's ruling to have Nero raised under two roofs will make the boy an oddball. But there's only so much normality that the progeny of two destructive minds can bear.

* * *

 

Both John and Mary had chastised Irene and Sherlock’s refusal to raise Nero under one proper roof. And they had done so almost every chance that had been afforded to them. Apparently, because their daughter was older than Nero by one year, they were more experienced in parenthood than the dominatrix and the detective.  This somehow made _them_ the experts, though Sherlock felt that it was impossible to associate expertise with parenthood. The Watsons’ beliefs were that by having Nero living in two homes at once, Sherlock and Irene were supporting a very unhealthy and unconventional childhood for the boy.

Their son would have an exceptional childhood regardless of what family structure he was raised under, this Sherlock was sure of. He would expect everything but normality from Nero because he would be highly intellectual for his age, given his parents’ outstanding intelligence and the strong Adler-Holmes blood that was coursing through him. That would be enough to make him stand out for the rest of his life. His son would recognize his own superior genius instead of letting the world inevitably classify him as an oddball, as society had been so keen to do with his father.

In any case, there was no real value in putting themselves under one roof when both Sherlock and Irene were considerably incapacitated with clientele for most of the week. Nero didn’t mind spending time with Mrs. Hudson or at Scotland Yard with Lestrade and the rest of the policemen. He had an abundant support system. His uncle was the British government and Sherlock had left him in Mycroft’s office from time to time when everyone else was out of commission.

There were instances where Sherlock and Irene had their little squabbles over Nero’s care- like whether he’d be attending public or private school or school at all, but that was to be expected.

 

From the time he opened his eyes, Nero had exhibited strong signs of great intellect.

In fact, one morning when they were all eating breakfast in Mrs. Hudson’s flat, Nero planted his two feet onto the ground and recited Sir Isaac Newton’s Three Laws of Motion at the age of four in front of his mother and father.

Since then, Sherlock invited his son to partake on a series of unruly experimentations with him with proper supervision and protection, of course. Sherlock snagged an extra set of goggles, a dark green smock, and oversized gloves for his son to wear from St. Bart’s. They had experimented in various ranges of things, testing out outrageous theories that were both proven and unproven. Nero had even taken it upon himself to see how quickly Mummy’s favourite Loubutins melted in a chemical compound he had seen his father use before.

At the age of six, he had been reported to the headmaster’s room for telling the entire class that he had witnessed his parents having sex in order to refute the claim that babies came in little packages from birds when they in fact came from people having intimate relations. His “destroying the entire classroom’s innocence” had almost reached the papers before Mycroft- or Uncle Microbe, as Nero endearingly called him- seized control of the situation.

When Nero turned eight, Irene and Sherlock had made the startling decision to separate from each other. She had grown closer to their son to displace the fact that Sherlock spent nearly all of his time on his murder cases instead of with his family. Sherlock never knew why or how he had grown so distant from the woman who mattered and his son, or so he told himself.

His father saw him off to school every day for one week and every other week, he stayed at his mother’s capacious and lavish flat in Belgravia.This schedule was customary for Nero, it had always gone that way. The only difference had been that his parents were no longer together. Like his father, Nero was dependent on continuity. The coldness at Baker Street and at his mother’s flat upset the balance that he needed to be maintained.

This would not stand with Nero. He devised a master plan to get his household back together.

He chose the day where traffic would be thick and close to inoperable to act out his plan. Once Sherlock saw him off, the clever son of the dominatrix and the detective hid himself in the library and waited for hours while London grew hysterical and abuzz in a search for him. As he thought, his parents reunited the very night he was found, four hours later. He had even outsmarted his father which was a rarity for anyone who crossed paths with the great Sherlock Holmes.

Nero Hamish Adler-Holmes was copiously anomalous and unique. He needn’t anybody to tell him that. But that could hardly be attributed to the fact that he hadn’t been raised in one home instead of two. Nero knew that he didn’t need to live under one roof to sustain himself. (Living in a standard household was frankly boring and he had deduced that from how droll his schoolmates were)

All that he needed was his mother and father, the clever detective and the woman who beat him.

* * *

 


	3. Nero Wolfe Series Chapter III

* * *

 

 

 

“Look at me, Nero,” Sherlock’s voice is stern and unswerving, though there are blazing glimmers of anger in his focused eyes. He places two delicate fingers upon his son’s jaw and tilts his head slightly to the side, surveying for further damage, “Are you alright?”

Nero’s eyes are round and large and he sits upright when his father lifts him up and places him on the lab table in the center of the flat. He is trying his best not to falter his expression but his body betrays him almost immediately. Tremors erupt everywhere. He knows he cannot mask these things from his father. Any fallacy that he can try to conjure up is hopeless because he knows how brilliant his father is. He isn’t afraid. He’s silently angry at his inability to quell his body’s reaction to earlier events. There’s a lingering sting of bitterness on his tongue and he realizes he wants to cry.

But he puffs his chest and thins his quivering lip. He offers an individual nod to retort his father’s inquiry. It takes all his might to stifle the tears threatening to flood from his eyes.

“What’s happened?” Sherlock asks.

He already knows what happened to his son. He is able to make effortless deductions once he sees Nero. His shoes have scuffs on them from clumsily running away from assaulters. And the cuffs of his brand new jeans are muddied which means that he took a shortcut home, exhibiting his keenness to get away from the aggressors.

Yes, Sherlock had already known once Nero came running up the stairs into the flat what had happened to his son. But he asks anyway to avoid severing the importance of communication between them. Mrs. Hudson’s beliefs were that it was in Nero’s best interest not to use deductions to substitute for conversation between father and son. Since Sherlock is predictably … difficult and equipped with a set of unconventional idiosyncrasies.

“They made fun of me today in class,” Nero speaks in a soft voice but there are subtle inflections in his voice that give away his inner distress, “The boys in my class were calling me a freak and a weirdo. They wouldn’t let me sit with them at lunch. And during recess they threw rocks at me. They think I’m impenetrable just because I’m smarter than them.”

Nero Hamish Adler Holmes seemed to be burdened with both Sherlock’s superior intellect and arrogance, though it was less abrasive than his father’s. The average seven year-old wouldn’t possibly comprehend how to use the word “impenetrable” in a sentence. Because of his remarkably above average IQ, he was placed in two grades higher than the standard level, which meant, in Sherlock’s experience, more idiotic and jealous people to deal with. His reticence and small size does not serve Nero well. He already has a large bull’s eye aimed at his back for being the son of Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler. But he has to thwart the unwanted attention from idiots twice his size and two years his senior.

There are things that Nero neglects to include when describing the events of the day. Sherlock understands that he does so out of humiliation but he doesn’t really need Nero to reveal everything to him. He knows that he scraped his knees when he tried to escape the bullies. He knows that he didn’t eat his lunch today because there are traces of peanut butter and jelly on his satin shirt that he furiously tried to rub away with cheap soap and thin bathroom tissue.  He knows from the steadily increasing pulse in his son’s body that he is holding back tears. He’s both too proud and too embarrassed.

It is evident that the bullies have familiarized themselves with Nero’s academic schedule. This was an accumulative attack, which meant that if Sherlock didn’t put in an end to it immediately, they would continue to taunt him.

Sherlock’s fist and jaw tenses simultaneously once these deductions are made known and he is decidedly infuriated by this.

Mycroft relentlessly tormented him as a child, insisting that he was solely composed of pure idiocy, which had been an utter artifice. It made Sherlock’s self-esteem hit solid rock bottom. Other children wanted nothing to do with him and vice versa. He was ostracized and rarely ever invited to playdates, not that he would degrade himself to those things. There had come a time when Sherlock believed that his worth was tantamount to dirt and he dealt with his developmental issues through cocaine binges and occasional smoking. He remembers how people scrutinized and judged and demeaned him for his personality and seemingly inability to process human nature. He had decided from a young age that the world wasn’t worth his time.

But he had no desire for Nero to inherit the same woes he had experienced growing up. When Irene gave birth and he held him in his arms for the first time, his first emotion had been a peculiar melancholy. He was born with his eyes open and he stared directly into his father’s eyes without ever breaking contact. He would be brilliant, Sherlock was convinced, and he would also deal with the world’s refusal to assimilate him into society. He would face rejection and hatred and hurt. But that would soon be substituted for heartlessness. For some strange undefinable reason, Sherlock does not want that for Nero.

Irene remarked that he changed since the birth of their son, and he supposes he has. She

“You’re bleeding on your knees,” he says, judging by his son’s limp and the dark burn marks on his jeans, “Your mother keeps a spare first aid kit in the bathroom.”

“Where _is_ Mummy?” Nero cranes his neck to the right as his father disappears into the next room and he can hear rattling noises.

Sherlock reappears with a dim grey box and rolls Nero’s jeans up to his thighs.

“Your mother is incapacitated with clients. She will be home in about an hour,” Sherlock responds, dabbing alcohol onto his son’s knees and he holds his legs down to keep his reflexes from injuring him in the jugular. His wounds are superficial and nothing worth troubling himself over. He bandages them and takes Nero off of the table.

“I revealed to my math teacher that he was going to be fired today. I thought he should know before the day was over,” Nero’s curls bounce as Sherlock puts him down, “And I informed my English teacher that she was expecting. And one of the boys who threw rocks at me, his parents are getting divorced. I told him I was sorry and he just called me a freak.”

Nero shakes his head in complete dismay, “I only wanted to help them. But I don’t know why no one wants to listen.”

In fact, everyone seemed so eager to deflect and deny the truth that had been staring them cold in the face. They were angry with Nero for being the only other person to bear witness to these things. What is it about the world that no one wants to accept reality for what it is? Nero remembers his father’s famous words:   _Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth._

He supposes he ought to take that advice to heart and view everything as logically as possible.

“I’m different, aren’t I?” his eyes are searching Sherlock’s for confirmation. He buries his hands deep into his pockets. There’s a sullen expression on his face that makes infuses Sherlock’s heart with a strong feeling of dismalness. “I have to be different. Otherwise people wouldn’t treat me this way.”

Sherlock presses his lips together in thought. This is also something new. He’s more careful and sensitive about the words he chooses. Lying won’t possibly aid him in this venture. And the truth is all he really cares about. He _can_ lie. His son is intelligent enough to detect any false statements. Lying won’t abate the pain of isolation either way. Besides, they are different. There is no error in that.

“Yes. You are different, Nero,” Sherlock places his hands behind his back and stands in front of his son in a lecturing but not denigrating position, “When other children are depleting their frontopolar cortex on video game consoles you will be studying the periodic table of elements because it intrigues you. When other teenagers are stressing their bodies over the next scholastic exam, you won’t worry too much because the education itself is beneath you. When college students are too busy shagging their hopeless lives away, you’ll question the true reason college professor’s disappearance or the contents of the food that they serve you during lunch. You’re a Holmes boy, Nero. You’re destined to be different. In my decades of experience I have found nothing wrong with being different.”

A grin finds its way to Nero’s face. Twinkles glisten in his eyes the way Irene’s eyes do when she is immensely satisfied or when she’s thinking. Sherlock ruffles his son’s soft curls (a habit he is sure annoys Nero) and orders him to his bedroom that used to belong to John. He tells him to change into something more comfortable for dinner.

Once the bedroom door thuds shut, the floorboards creak and an unquestionably familiar scent permeates the walls of the flat. A knowing grin pulls at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth.

Somehow she is still able to sneak into the flat without giving away a single clue. That is the Woman. She still bears the qualities of an evanescent being … she’s still a living impossibility.  

Irene’s Loubutins clack against the floor as she strides over to Sherlock and buries her fingers into the curls at his nape. She presses a soft kiss to his cheek with a hum.

“I didn’t want to intervene. I saw that you had the situation under control,” her voice is cool which is indicative of an apparently satisfying turn of events with her clients.

“I understand the irrationality of this statement but I want Nero to seek revenge on his adversaries,” Sherlock reveals. He examines her exterior and surmises that she has been in the flat for twelve, maybe thirteen minutes. He won’t have to repeat his words to her.

“Last time I checked, there’s nothing irrational in self-defense,” Irene responds, shrugging her shoulders.

“Yes but I want him to _hurt_ them. Possibly hospitalize them,” he mumbles that last part.

“Oh,” Irene shrugs her jacket off of her shoulder and hangs it on the coat rack. She steps out of her shoes which shortens her height, but she stands on the tips of her toes and grins coyly before grazing his lips with hers. She gets a firm grip on the collar of his blue shirt and pulls him down to grant her the higher advantage in the kiss. “Teach him a few things about the human anatomy. He’ll know which parts to will disable the body quickest. That’ll teach them a thing or two about bullying a Holmes.”

“Most assuredly I will,” Sherlock agrees, reaching out to brush a smudge of lipstick from the corner of Irene’s mouth.

“I know you worried about this from the time he was an infant,” Irene thanks him for the sentimental action, “And I did too. But Sherlock, there isn’t a thing to worry about. The difference between you and Nero is that we acknowledge our son’s superiority and we proudly accept it. I know your parents never did that with you.”

"I never told you about my parents."

"Deductions, my dear."

"Yes, of course."

"In any case, Nero will have his father to relate to," Irene says.

“ _And_ his mother,” Sherlock adds. He has always considered Irene an equal.

“And you can always have Mycroft handle the situation,” Irene teases.

Sherlock wouldn’t dream of letting Mycroft intervene. The elder Holmes will only use this opportunity to make claim that Sherlock was incapable of protecting his son. He has his own contacts anyway. He will take matters into his own hands if the need should arise.

But Irene is right.

Nero will not be treated the way Sherlock was.

* * *

 

 

 

~~oh this is terrible, I know, but I had to get it out. The characterization is awful ughhh~~


	4. Nero Wolfe Series Chapter IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero has a disconcerting tendency to burst into fits of laughter whenever Sherlock goes into a monologue. Sherlock finds out why. And Nero says his first word :)

* * *

 

_Intricate_

Arms folded across the hard surface of his chest, Sherlock’s face was reflective of his convoluted mind. It came from the growing curiosity within him that his son seemed to evoke.

Nero’s bright and round eyes sparkled with a natural jest while his tiny feet attached to his tiny legs were sticking up in the air. His fists were balled up tight circles from the glee bubbling in his tummy. A wide grin with some teeth consumed his face as he too found himself curious with this tall lean figure that was apparently his father.

_Intrigue syncopated with mischief._

Sherlock’s released a slow exhale and proceeded to meticulously examine his son like he would a crime scene.

Since Nero’s skin was considerably fair, he was certainly susceptible to ruddy pigmentation in moments of animation. At the moment, his cheeks suddenly grew occupied with a reddish tint. His mouth was in the shape of a great crescent and his fists were tautly coiled. Any moment now, he would laugh.

And laugh Nero did. He burst into an incalculable fit of laughter that flummoxed the unshakable Sherlock Holmes. It had taken him so far aback that his mind failed to produce a logical deduction as to why his twelve month old son was laughing so hysterically at him.

Sherlock’s mouth twitched and his eyes flitted back and forth. He was utterly perplexed.

“I don’t understand,” his voice was deep and loud most unintentionally. He sometimes couldn’t help the spontaneity of his baritone resonance, “What on earth could you possibly find so amusing?”

Nero seemed to be mocking him as his shrieks of laughter persisted and actually grew with mirth.  

“Well, lack of brain development makes vocabulary an unfortunate handicap for you at the moment so I don’t expect any coherent verbal retorts other than a series of unintelligible babbles. But I _am_ being most sensible when I request that you put an end to this insipid laughter.  There is hardly anything comedic about having a diaper filled with excrement,” Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed with frustration.

His son’s laughter mellowed down to soft noises but he grabbed his left foot and shoved it into his mouth, babbling gibberish and occasional vowels at his father. His eyes bore so much intelligence. It as almost as if you could see the thinking gears grinding together in his pupils.

But his body developed slower than his mind so he could not express these things as intelligibly as he would like. It must be equivalent to solitary confinement, his father thought.

“I can see various signs that you will be left-handed,” Sherlock mused, “Your mother is right-handed and so am I. Both my mother and father are right-handed so it certainly isn’t a genetic tradition. John is the only left-handed person I personally know and he is moderately above the average mind. It’s plausible that you have inherited a genetic mutation, hence why you will be left-handed. Since you are born of superior minds, I expect nothing less than superior brilliance. Vast scientific studies have proven that left-handed people consume the more brilliant side of-“

Sherlock’s incomprehensible ramble of scientific facts and deductions to his son provoked yet another series of befuddling laughter.

“You’re doing it again?” Sherlock raised his arm with disbelief, “Was it something I said? No, you can’t understand what I’m saying, let alone comprehend comedy.”

The delicate sound of refined footsteps came from one end of the hallway and Irene emerged into the deplorable kitchen in the 221B flat. She came adorned in Sherlock’s favorite blue dressing gown, a habit she familiarized herself with for quite some time.

It was a lovely fit on her feminine frame. Sherlock himself found no valid reason to complain about it. She looked all very fit and posh, her dark locks put up in a loose but sophisticated bun. Some escaped curls hung at her nape but it was still all very _Irene Adler_.

“You haven’t even changed him?” Irene did not even bother inquiring why her son was laying on a clump of paper towels on the kitchen counter. His pamper was still damp and protruding between his legs with a repulsive scent.

“He’s hindering the process by behaving disagreeably,” Sherlock gave his reason.

“Sherlock, it’s a bloody diaper, not an impossible-to-diffuse bomb,” Irene huffed, “You’re not incapable, are you?”

She honestly would not have been chafed in the least if Sherlock revealed that he had erased the process of changing pampers from his memory, or if he’d ever learned at all.

“Well of course I’m capable. He insists on laughing for some inscrutable reason,” his response was childish but honest.

“Oh darling,” Irene shook her head, ushering him to the side so that she change Nero herself. The baby didn’t make a single peep. He only smiled lovingly at his mother and cooed softly as if he were thanking her once she’d finally strapped a new diaper onto him.

Later on in the afternoon when it was Sherlock’s turn to hold him, he’d found himself drifting off into his personal experiments involving the use of thermodynamics and once he started reciting algorithms aloud, Nero threw his head back and released a surge of giggles, which gave Sherlock an … odd feeling.

“See, Irene?” Sherlock said, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “He has been doing this all day. For every instance that I speak of anything involving scientific facts or observations that I have made, our son becomes consumed with laughter. It is so unnerving.”

“Why?” Irene had been sitting across from Sherlock, her feet curled up in the chair he usually sat in, “Laughing is healthy.”

“Yes, but what does he find so _amusing_?”  

“You, of course,” her response is so nonchalant, it surprised even herself.

“M-me?” Sherlock’s neck twitches ever so slightly in confusion, “What could any of this possibly have to do with me?”

“He finds your intelligence amusing, Sherlock. It excites him, that’s why he laughs. It shouldn’t surprise you anyway. His mother is the same way. That’s why she agreed to have this baby in the first place,” Irene’s eyebrow raised with coy, “In any case, you _are_ his father. He shares a strong bond with you, Sherlock. I do believe that normal people would say that he loves you.”

Irene knew it would stifle Sherlock in his footsteps. He suddenly began to struggle to organize a proper sentence. He felt like an annoying sputtering engine in those few moments that seemed to drag on. It wasn’t until Nero himself puckered his plump pink lips and pressed them to Sherlock’s own lips that the ability to process Irene’s words returned to him.

“So … he finds science enjoyable,” Sherlock surmised, verbalizing what was supposed to be his unannounced thoughts, “And his laughter is in correlation to the excitability that these things evoke. Oh, Irene our son is full of surprises.”

“I would expect so. There won’t be anything commonplace or ritualistic about raising an Adler-Holmes. Either he’ll be involved in scandals or in investigations in his future. Or both.”

“Or both,” Sherlock echoed Irene’s words with a half-grin of pride.

Nero leaned in and mumbled something into his father’s ear.

“He’s trying to verbalize his thoughts,” Sherlock said, a shot of adrenaline tingling down his spine as he encouraged his son to continue.

He mumbled a second time, _merr….d….e…._

 _He’s been muttering this all day_ , Sherlock thought most impatiently, _Say it!_

After what seemed to be a miserable and strenuous stain of letters vowels and enunciation, Nero had taken a deep breath and spoke his first word in front of his mother and father.

"Murder," Nero had peeped.

And then he began laughing once more.

* * *

 

~~Teehee, Nero is full of surprises, even as a one year old. Based on someone’s post about Nero’s first word being “murder”. I can’t remember who but I got the idea from them. So thanks.~~


	5. Nero Wolfe Series Chapter V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero admires his father in ways even he doesn't understand.

* * *

 

 

Nero prides himself in the fact that his father is the great Sherlock Holmes.

Once when he had gone for a walk with his mother in the reservedly private shopping district in Belgravia, he had seen a hat in a window from the Louise Kennedy designer store.  It was deerstalker, a precise replica of his father’s hat, the one that Sherlock loathed in every palpable way.

He had pleaded with his mother incessantly for it, insisting that he would properly clean his bedroom if she purchased it.

Irene had told him that she was too clever for bribes and childish negotiations such as this but she decided to purchase the hat anyway to spite Sherlock.

He wears the hat everywhere. And people stop him in the streets and tell him that he is like a replica of his father, donning Sherlock’s dark curls and his intelligent eyes and tidbits of his personality. It’s all he truly wants. He wants to be just like his father, solving the most baffling of crimes and swaggering away with stark confidence and pride.

Irene wants to cut Nero’s hair once it has grown long and coiled. It covers his ears and most of his forehead in loose swivels and even when the wind blows, you’d have thought the boy had locks like Rapunzel. But Nero has a serious attachment to his hair and pleads that she leave him be.

Sherlock never notices how Nero turns up his collar the way he does with his trench coat.  He owns one just like his father. He never notices how his son carries his own magnifying glass in his left pocket and takes it out from time to time to examine newer scratches being made around the flat.

Skid marks on the floorboards, fingerprints on the tables, folds in clothing, all of these minute details intrigue him. He always wants to know _why_.

Sometimes late at night when Irene has put him to bed, he climbs out and looks through the small crack of his open door to see what his parents entertain themselves with when they think he’s asleep. He never knows that Sherlock can always tell that his son is watching them. He’s only a child and his brain hasn’t fully developed.

Sometimes they relax in front of the fireplace, enjoying cigarettes, tea, and crackers and speak of things far too complex for Nero’s understanding. But the placidity of the atmosphere between his parents brings a peculiar warmness to his heart. He never hears them say “I love you” to each other the way his schoolmates’ parents do.

But he knows that they do love each other. The comfort that this unspoken knowledge evokes is a rarity in and of itself. And that is the only thing that Nero does understand about the amicable bond between his parents.

Other nights, they disappear into their bedroom to indulge in equivocally obscure activities with the door locked, to keep their explorative son out. Nero tries to recognize the muffled sounds coming from the bedroom but the ambiguity is enough to make him surrender the investigation. But the next morning, once his parents have vacated the bedroom, Nero uses his magnifying glass to examine the causes of the scratches on the wallpaper behind the bedposts. Or why the sheets have suddenly been replaced and the old ones stashed away in the hamper.

There are some nights, however, when his mother is asleep and only Sherlock is awake. Only then does Nero come out of his room because, unlike Irene, Sherlock doesn’t patronize his son for staying up past his bedtime. He isn’t as stern as his mother is, and neither is he as involved.

Sherlock is sitting with his back to Nero, looking through a microscope and there are empty flasks and plants scattered on the table. He’s working on something again.

Nero silently watches his father in reverence. His authoritative figure overcomes him. His role as a detective in which he dons professionalism and regality so effortlessly is beyond admirable to Nero Hamish Adler-Holmes. _What goes on in that superior mind?_ He thinks his father to be the most brilliant and most important man in the world.

His heart thrums really hard in his chest once his father moves without warning and sends an inquiry his way.

“Do you want to transmogrify these plants?” Sherlock asks, looking back at his son, who is startled because he doesn’t expect to be noticed.

He hasn’t the slightest idea how his father had known he was standing there but he steps out of his room to join his him at the table when he beckons him forward. He is instructed to put on a smock, gloves, and protective goggles.

Sherlock lectures his son on chemical equations and balances as he lets Nero act out the experiment. He can see the radiance of enthusiasm and intrigue on his face as he handles the plants. It places a pleasant feeling inside him knowing that his son displays honest attentiveness to these things.

Some afternoons after school, Nero waits for his father to return home from a murder case just so he can hear about them in the most grotesque and specific details. He loves how important his father is to both England and in some dire cases, the world.

And there are times when Irene objects to this because she feels as though Nero tries too hard to please his father instead of focusing on his own happiness. But then when she returns to the flat after a satisfactory day with her clients- scandalizing her enemies and applying new interrogative tactics- she finds her two clever detectives asleep on the disheveled sofa and she has second thoughts.

Sherlock is lying straight on his back. One arm slothfully slacked towards the floor and the other holding Nero, whose body is sprawled on top of his father’s.

 She uses her camera phone for complimentary photographs of these “memorable moments” and carries him off to bed.

"He really looks up to you, you know?" Irene tells him later on that night once Nero is actually asleep for once (Sherlock put him to bed).

"To some degree," Sherlock nods, "I couldn’t possibly see why. I’m not exactly what you would call a ‘good parent’."

"I beg to differ," Irene counters, "Neither of us are what one would refer to as ‘proper parents’. You solve impossible murders for a living and I unearth ghastly scandals and traitors in the British government by preying on sexual preferences. Our son was conceived in a morgue in the middle of a fervent shag. There’s hardly anything commonplace or acceptable about our parenting."

"True," Sherlock smirks, recalling how he had appalled John and Mrs. Hudson when informing them that Nero was conceived in a morgue during an investigation, "But why does he look up to _me_?”

“ _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” Irene’s voice is marked by incredulity, “Surely that big brain of yours could deduce why your son wants to be just like you. He adores you, mimics you in every way, including your looks. Have you seen the way he dresses and the way he talks? I’m starting to think that he’s cloned himself after you.”

Sherlock grins again, full of pride. He had never known of another being, albeit Irene, who had shown admiration for him in any way. He loves his son, there is no argument in that. He’d always felt to a degree a level of insufficiency when it came to Nero’s needs. He didn’t think he could fulfill his son’s natural needs the way Irene could.

"I should take him on a case tomorrow. I’ll let him examine the cadavers alongside me with supervision," Sherlock shoots straight up before Irene can object and goes into his mind palace to construct a series of ways that he can show his son that he acknowledges him with care.

* * *

 

 

~~please forgive the haphazard arrangement of tenses here~~

 


	6. Nero Wolfe Series Chapter VI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Sherlock is away on a case, Irene and Nero enjoy a bubble bath.

Art by the truly lovely [gloriousdasher ](gloriousdasher.tumblr.com)

* * *

 

 

The mop of dark rivulets that sat atop Nero’s head was ambushed by a thick layer of lavender-scented soap and scattered with many tiny bubbles. Some had popped and fluttered away as little Nero peered up at his mother with wide round twinkling eyes, his face glowing with a newfound buoy.

The warm water came just below his mid-torso, and his little hands grasped for purchase at the bottom of the white marble stone bathtub for his ironclad pirate ships and magnifying glass that he had insisted be brought along to accompany he and his mother for bath time.

Oasis’ Champagne Supernova (perhaps not the most appropriate song for the occasion) lulled at a soft volume that any uninterested ears could go numb to but it had been just right for Irene, who sat across from Nero, hair loosely brushed back and pinned into a bun.

Her blue eyes were gentle upon her son but sparkled nevertheless with the simplicity of contentment that his presence had always evoked in her. He truly inherited his father’s genes, the mulish curls that had teasingly been styled congruously to Sherlock’s, (and honestly, Irene wouldn’t have had it any other way because what else could she have possibly done with his hair?) the studious eyes that had changed color in the last few minutes from a bright blue to a now forest green with vibrant flecks of gold and blue. Heterochromia had been the genetic mutation that Sherlock managed to pass down to his son, along with some hints of shadowy prominent cheekbones (though that was something both Irene and Sherlock had attributed).

But he had Irene’s lips and her chin. And he also had her ears, her alabaster shade of skin and he had some faint freckles plastered across his back and torso much like both his parents.

What a beautiful and magnificent boy they had created. Two incredibly destructive minds with a wicked taste for poison and danger had come together and procreated (an unintentional procreation, they might add) the most brilliant child London would ever come to know since the birth of Sherlock Holmes.

And while Sherlock had remarked in numerous cases, both pensively and without guide of thought that Irene’s IQ couldn’t possibly be far behind his own, this form of brilliance had its own entirety of definition.

These were two like minds, one being entirely self-destructive and the other extinguishing whatever stands in her path. Sex and murder had blended together all so well. But the summation of two such things could only mean trouble and Irene could not help but wonder even in this moment if Nero would have inherited her propensity for indulging in innumerably devious ventures or his father’s macabre and obsessive romanticism for murder.

It was one or the other, given that Nero’s first word had been “Murder” right before he said “Huddah” for Mrs. Hudson, and “Jay” for John Watson. He knew basic words, like hello and goodbye, and he was able to count up to four, and given that he was only 1.5 years of age that was awfully impressive. But of all words that the son of the dominatrix and the detective could care to say the most, he must have said “Murder” roughly around sixty times a day.

It was part of the reason why Irene had slipped the Oasis album into the stereo system across from the bath tub.

A wide grin stretched across Nero’s face as he plunged his hand into the water again and tossed the pearlescent bubbles into the air, his cheeks growing rosy as he watched some dance their way back into the tub among the other aggregation of bubbles while others popped and just like that, they were gone.

“Bubbles, Nero,” Irene said, leaning forward and thrusting some into the air and she watched as his eyes went wide and his mouth made an O shape as he pushed a particularly buoyant bubble towards his mother.

They played bubble ping-pong with their index fingers for a few moments until it had shrunken or deflated into nothingness and once more, Nero’s focus turned on another bubble, frustratingly curious as to why they kept popping after being played with for so short a while. And he still couldn’t find his magnifying glass or his ironclad pirate ships (he hadn’t noticed that Irene slipped them out of the tub seconds after he put them in).

“Mama, bubbles,” Nero repeated after his mother, his fingers spread apart as his hands went upwards to catch the bubbles his mother tossed into the air a second time. He studied his mother, contemplating why she hadn’t been as animated as he was over the bubbles. Did she not find them exciting?

Then Nero glanced downwards and to his dismay, he saw his legs, atop his mother’s, wriggling beneath the soft sway of the bathwater. He met his mother’s gentle gaze with a frustrated expression on his face.

“Bubbles?” he asked, evidently upset with the fact that all the bubbles had gone and there was simple plain and boring water left. Irene shook her head, reaching for remote that rested on the side table to shut off the stereo.

“No more, darling. Bath time is over,” Irene proclaimed, lifting her son out of the tub and onto the ground where she wrapped a white towel around him and did the same herself, “It’s time for bed. But first we’ve got to dry you off and get you into your pajamas.”

Nero seemed to pout in disagreement to his mother’s words. He was unwilling to be compliant with that detestable thing called “Sleep”. And Irene imagined that like Sherlock, Nero felt that there was too much to explore and too many questions to be answered to waste such valuable time sleeping.

Just as Irene got down to her knees to dry Nero’s dripping wet hair, the boy’s body’s tensed and he sprinkled water droplets across the floor as he whipped around towards the open bathroom door.

“Papa,” he uttered in one breath. Always in one breath.

That had been another one of Nero’s uncanny aspects. He could always detect his father’s presence or the penultimate moment of his presence with such great timing that it seemed almost supernatural.  

Not even a full moment later, the entrance door to Irene’s flat at 44 Eaton Square closed shut. Funnily, she couldn’t recall the time she had actually given Sherlock a spare key, not that she owned any spares. Which meant that the man must have had swiped them when she wasn’t looking earlier, knowing she’d stay at home (for once in her bloody life) all day with baby Nero, and had a copy crafted for his own use.

“You had my keys copied,” Irene grinned once Sherlock came down the hallway towards the bathroom where he ruffled Nero’s curls (Nero disliked it) and kissed Irene’s lips softly.

“And?” Sherlock asked, ruffling Nero’s hair a second time but the boy stepped from under his father’s petting, an adamant protesting expression on his face.

“How romantic,” Irene responded, “Good thing you’ve arrived just in time. Nero has to be put to bed. I gave him a bath. Now the fun portion is getting him to stay in bed. Goodnight, Sherlock,” Irene’s grin curved deeper as she slipped from the bathroom and watched Sherlock’s pleased though shocked expression at the realization that she had lured him into the bathroom only for it to have been a setup.

“Well then,” Sherlock looked down at Nero who was staring up at him with twinkling eyes of curiosity, “Shall we read Pirate Island again?”

* * *

 


	7. Nero Wolfe Series Chapter VII

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock expresses to Irene the day's exasperations of taking Nero to the playground.

* * *

 

“Sherlock, it was really quite a simple task,” Irene’s chastising voice rang from the bathroom rooms away from the living room area inside her flat at 44 Eaton Square.

“There was nothing simple about it,” Sherlock scowled, pulling his sleeve back to check the time on his watch that he’d acquired from a corpse, “Idiotic children were screaming everywhere. After I eliminated the pedophiles and kidnappers from the scene, our son was in less than forty-five percent danger.”

He took a seat on the ivory sofa (the same one he sat down on when he had first met The Woman) in what Irene had called the “anticipatory room” though it couldn’t have been any different from a living room where one would invite their guests to occupy themselves. Her furniture, no doubt expensive and admirable, had been somewhat too ostentatious for Sherlock’s taste. But it was The Woman’s and so it was tolerable.

“You’re being impractical about this,” Irene shouted, some inflections in her voice rather indicative of playfulness.

“ _You’re_ the one being impractical, planning playdates for our son. He doesn’t even enjoy being around other children,” Sherlock retorted, rolling his eyes and looking up at the gold pattern on the ceiling.

“Oh, Sherlock just because you don’t like people doesn’t mean our son feels the same way. He’s only one and a half.”

“Oh really? Because when I allowed him to survey the playground with Mr. Baxter’s stupid spoiled daughter, he went around telling the other children ‘murder’. He made a lot of children cry. And the bloody paparazzi were there as well.”

“Then I expect our son’s first words to make the front-page news. Besides, I told you I needed you to befriend Mr. Baxter. You would be surprised how effortlessly you can make friends because of children.”

“Other parents were repelled by him, especially the mothers. They were entirely cross with me. They mistook his ‘adorable looks’ for charity. Nero is apparently proud of his first words because it’s all he ever says to anybody, including Mrs. Hudson.”

“Well don’t pretend that you’re not proud of him,” Irene said, secretly amused that Sherlock Holmes had decisively referred to their son as ‘adorable’.

“I _am_ proud of him. It’s not like I favor Nero befriending such trivial lesser-thans. His responses to other children prove my irrefutable theory that…” Sherlock’s rumbling voice trailed off once before he could grumble into a monologue as Irene noiselessly descended into the living room area.

The Woman had such capabilities, wandering through the physicals walls of his or her flat, and the protective walls of his well-constructed Mind Palace. She could do it without cause for invitation but simply because she could. She operated on the whims of a seductress- elusive, sensual, composed, and calculated. Like wine that tunnels down your throat, or sweet honey on the tip of your tongue. She was…ravishing.

Sherlock sealed his lips, which had only been moments after he realized he was gaping up at her.

“It may be the nostalgia of me standing here in front of you positioned on the sofa at the exact angle you had been when we first crossed paths…but I haven’t seen you make such a face since l approached you wearing nothing but your purple shirt,” Irene’s red painted lips curved into a pleased grin and she placed her hands on her lips, appearing statuesque to the awe-struck detective.

“You look…” Sherlock rasped, “I feel- I mean…the inherent desire to relieve you of those burdensome garments is growing more and more irresistible with every passing second.”

“Is it?” Irene quirked an eyebrow, her lips curling deeper and deeper into that devious grin of hers, and its effect had been amplified by her high cheekbones now subtly flushed with a gentle stroke of blush.

“Yes…” Sherlock stood up, digging his grasp into the dips of her hips, “Yes it is,” he disapprovingly squeezed the material of her black satin Christian Dior dress, “You look utterly ravishing. How could I possibly stand here and not act on such urges?”

She’d stepped into the living room, ivory legs bared up to her knees with red stilettos and a special designer Christian Dior dress made of black satin and genuine pearl- a present from the detective (who had tried to pass it off as a nonchalant acknowledgement of necessity of clothing rather than a gift). And around her neck she wore a silver necklace and diamond earrings that she’d shown off with her hair pinned into a posh bun.

“We’ll be late for our reservations,” Irene angled her face to challenge the pace of Sherlock’s lips against her own. She clasped one hand around the base of his skull, fixing his bowtie with the other while simultaneously reciprocating the kiss that was deepening in passion.

“I’ll cancel them,” Sherlock growled, his fingers seeking out her flesh, “God knows it’s a waste of time anyway. I’m not hungry…at least not for food.”

“Mmm, Sherlock-“  Irene stepped back, separating his lips from hers with a good push against his torso, “We can’t. We promised John and Mary. It’s their anniversary.”

“Since when are you so chivalrous?” Sherlock asked, checking his mouth and the surrounding area for any lipstick residue.

“Since I gave birth to your son, that’s when,” Irene retorted, “In any case, I trust you’ve already found a proper nanny for Nero since we had to fire the last one?”

“Yes, I have,” Sherlock responded, reaching for Irene’s coat and helping her into it, “Mycroft.”

“I’m confident you haven’t made any official arrangements with him,” Irene shook her head as she imagined the elder Holmes’ surprise when finding a baby, let alone his own nephew in his office.

“No. I put Nero in the carriage and gave him to Anthea,” Sherlock put on his own coat, shoving the extra set of keys that he had duplicated behind Irene’s back into his pocket, “I’d imagine that Mycroft will have an exponentially difficult time playing god with an Adler-Holmes, wouldn’t you?”

Irene gave a casual smirk before ordering her assistant Kate, who had waited in the main hall for the two, into the vehicle.

Hopefully Nero would express his zeal for the word “murder” when dealing with his posh uncle, whom both parties had occasionally wanted to “murder”. But for now, they had a dinner to attend that neither really cared too much for. The quicker they got it over with, the sooner they would be back at Irene’s flat and under her covers.

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to toy around with the idea of Nero being born deaf as a result of severe prematurity. I myself have hearing loss from prematurity so most of these medical facts are from experience and loads of google search.

Deaf…" Sherlock mumbles, eyes cast downward at the crib that occupied his newborn son.

"Yes, Sherlock. Deaf. He’s deaf," Irene watches with careful eyes as the detective remains unmoving, an uncomfortable distance from the crib.

"And…it’s…irreparable?" if that was the proper term for it, Sherlock asked. His voice, though rough in it’s timbre, was like a tentative child’s.

"He has enough residual hearing to use assisted listening devices. They’ve given me the option of having him use BTEs. I was going to consider cochlear implants but…he’s been through enough surgeries."

"Hmm…" Sherlock acknowledges her reply with a mumble, his blue/green eyes tracing the angry red scar that trailed down the infant’s torso from emergency heart surgery.

Nero Hamish Adler-Holmes was delivered via c-section six weeks early too early during Autumn in Paris, France. The doctors had said that it was placental abruption coupled with placenta previa and that he had been dying inside Irene’s body from oxygen cut-off.

_**Your son has organ failure in both his kidneys and in his lungs. He has failed the hearing test four times. Because of the severity of his premature birth he sustained damages to his middle and inner ear. Your son is deaf.**_ Irene remembers the way the doctor had spoken to her in rapid French. She remembers how she had clutched her child close to her bosom when they'd announced that he had a high probability for infantile death.  


And that was all after they had performed heart surgery on Nero once a nurse detected a heart mumur from an apparent congenital heart defect. Since his body was too small and frail for a catheter, surgical operation was the only option available for him.

Sherlock read the medical reports Irene had sent him on the train on his way to her flat. She’d told him about the surgery and the c-section but she hadn’t told him that their child was deaf.

His gaze on Nero is unwavering. He seems small, even now, a month and a half later, still fragile, still…unprotected. Sherlock realizes that he wants to hold his son, wants to stroke the unruly curls on his head, wants to listen to his breathing, wants to see what part of him exists in this child.

Nero’s eyelashes are dark against the pale palor of his skin and in his sleep, his chest rising and falling, Sherlock thinks he looks like Irene. The red surgical scar seems to be telling him that he best not touch him, though.

"He isn’t broken, Sherlock," Irene says, stepping towards the detective and urging him closer to the crib, "He’s doing much better now. His kidney and lung and heart functions are all relatively normal."

"I- I didn’t…" Sherlock finds himself having difficulty formulating the words, "I know he isn’t _broken_. I would never think that. He’s…he’s… I’m sorry," his voice goes soft, as if he doesn’t want to wake the infant on the soft blue sheets in the creme-colored crib. He can’t hear, Sherlock recalls.

He inhales sharply, eyes connecting with Irene’s.

She is shocked to be met with reddened eyes from the characteristically collected detective. She starts to ask him if he’s alright.

"It is socially considered customary for father’s to cry when they see their newborns for the first time," is the best the woman can manage.

"Father," Sherlock scoffs softly, the disbelief in his voice shifting to a melancholy, "Some father I am destined to be. I wasn’t even present for the pregnancy, let alone the birth. I hardly think ‘father’ is the appropriate title for me. I think 'absolute d-"

“ _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” Irene’s soft crisp voice stops him from going into a self-deprecating monologue, “Surely you can’t be taking the blame for this.”

"No, of course not," Sherlock replies ruefully, noticing that Irene has nudged him closer to the crib again when she pressed herself into his side, "My grievance is towards my absence during his birth, my…lack of support. Not only towards him but also towards you. I can't imagine what must have been going through your mind in the hospital."

"You were in a Serbian torture chamber, for goodness' sake. I doubt you’d have been of much help."  


Sherlock’s chuckle is cut off by a gasp when a soft groan comes from the crib. Nero’s face, smooth and perfect, scrunches up and Sherlock thinks he looks like a cotton raisin. His fists clench tight and his mouth opens wide to reveal toothless pink gums.

_Did I wake him_? Sherlock has to remind himself that his son is deaf. Still, the panic that shoots back and forth from his head to his toes doesn’t exactly make him any less tense. **_Why is he waking up_**?!

"Uh- um, what is happening?" Sherlock’s eyes dart from Nero to Irene.

"He’s waking up," Irene deadpans, "It’s a basic human functions, Babies do it as well."

"He looks upset," Sherlock glances towards the crib and right on cue, Nero starts fussing, arms and legs squirming frantically, "Is he hungry?"

"I just fed him," Irene goes to sit down in the chair perpendicular to the crib, "He wants to be held. In case you forgot how to hold things I'm sure there's a manual somewhere…"

Sherlock turns white as a ghost, daunted by the idea of holding this child- _his_ child. But Nero won’t stop fussing and Irene has conveniently turned her attention to her unpainted nails and he realizes when it’s too late that he absolutely has no choice but to reach his hands into the crib and hold his son.

"Sanitizer," Irene says, motioning towards the hand sanitizer on the dresser.

"Right," Sherlock says, pumping two squirts into his hand before turning back to the crib.

Nero weighs much lighter than he imagined a baby would. He also smells like lavender and spice, probably from being around Irene all this time (well obviously). He’s much warmer than Sherlock has anticipated and his eyes are bright like Irene’s. Or perhaps like his own. Already he's analyzing his son, trying to figure out where his features have come from. A mop of dark curly hair sits on Nero's head and that could be credited to both Irene and Sherlock since they both have dark curly hair. (though Irene's hair is much softer). He is incredibly beautiful, Sherlock thinks. There’s something settling in the way his muscles naturally set when he holds a now-quiet Nero in his arms.

_L-love? Yes, love. I love my son._

"He’s deaf," Sherlock says aloud, looking towards Irene and back towards Nero, bearing the proud grin of a father, "But far from imperfect."


End file.
